


Just as well

by toluenesister



Series: Dissolve and absolve [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Bondage, Coercion, M/M, Mental Breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-03
Updated: 2011-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:25:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toluenesister/pseuds/toluenesister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce explores the difference between losing the reins and giving them up. A sequel to Branding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just as well

Alfred has been sent away where no one would find him, Bruce Wayne has absconded yet again without anyone asking any questions, and all the other possible loose ends have been tied up as neatly as possible, leaving all that is left to do to Batman and Batman alone. The problem is, the Joker never calls for Batman. The Joker sends Bruce text messages or little notes, and tonight he tells him when and where, and he is also very specific--no cumbersome devices, no infuriating wrappings over his _treat_ , or else. And until Bruce can find a way out of this, he needs to abide. That's what he tells himself as he follows the instructions. _Maybe I could figure out what he wants, maybe I could get to him somehow, maybe I could find out if anyone else knows who I am_ , he tells himself, but his mind goes blank as soon as he's at the door of some secluded motel room. He knocks three times, waits ten seconds, two times more. The door creaks open just a little bit, and Bruce is already sweating.

Every time he dons his armor and goes out into the night, his mind is pure and cold, his thoughts black and white, he knows what to do, and he plans the Joker's apprehension, because that's what _he's supposed to do_. Every time he takes off his cowl and reads another seemingly innocuous message from the Joker, his mind falls apart, his resolution dissolves like it never existed, the strands of the three-week-old memory snake around him, but he won't acknowledge it, even as his blood starts to swim downwards. He just attributes it all to his cautiousness; he has to cover every possibility before he can turn the Joker in. He has to be sure there won't be any repercussions. If it means he needs to endure more of _that_ , so be it. He opens the door and steps inside.

The light is insipid, the room itself is anything but inviting, but the lean figure standing a couple of feet from the door is quite imposing. Bruce closes the door behind him, but makes no effort to go further, watching the Joker with wide open eyes. The man is wearing an olive green shirt with a swanky pattern and dark gray pants, his usual gray shoes and suspenders completing the outfit. He seems a little underdressed considering his usual preferences, but it's not like it matters. His sleeves are rolled up, and his white-as-snow, red-as-blood, black-as-ebony war paint adds more than a few grotesque twists to his wide grin. His gaze tells the shape of things to come, and this is what really matters. Bruce swallows with difficulty as the maniac beckons for him to come closer, and he obeys.

The Joker is only a little taller than Bruce, but in this instance he seems to literally tower over him. He bows his head slightly and examines Bruce's face with mock concern, as if he doesn’t notice the evident hatred and repulsion in his eyes. Bruce wants it to be evident, but wanting is not enough. It’s of no use, anyway. One look at the Joker's face will tell you everything you need to know about the ways you could possibly deject this man; there are none.

"Did you clean yourself? Like I told you?" the Joker asks, his voice surprisingly free of the sneer Bruce expected to hear. Still, he makes sure his eyes stare a few daggers in the Joker's direction before he deigns to a nod. The madman beams and tilts his head to the side before he leans in confidentially.

"A little _tense_ today, aren't you," he hisses, his mouth right next to Bruce's ear. Bruce tries not to shudder when hot breath ghosts against his neck, and he tries to suppress everything the Joker's smell evokes in him. That acrid mix of gun powder, greasepaint, sweat and something faintly _fragrant_ about his clothes feels a little too easy to take in. He hangs his head and makes a point not to sustain the eye contact. He is already in too much distress, and each cell of his body has gone haywire. The point is not to let the Joker _see_. The madman doesn't make too much of those efforts, though. He starts to circle around Bruce like a scavenger assessing whether his dinner is dead already, and Bruce feels his skin prickle at the spots the Joker lays his eyes upon, but he doesn't turn. The Joker is right behind him, and his mouth is close to his ear again, almost close enough to touch.

"We should go a little easier on you this time, hm?" The tone is almost sprightly, almost friendly. The Joker resumes his circling with an inviting smile. It's impossible not to look at him. "Just, uh... think of all the _heinous_ things I've done to you and your loved ones," the Joker tells him with a flourish. "Just think about that little something I carved into your _derrière_ , and _then_ think of your loved ones." Bruce begins to turn his head after the sidling man. "What do you feel like doing? Hm?" the Joker asks without stopping his gait. Bruce turns to face him, his eyes following, his body following of its own accord; they appear to be circling around each other for a moment, appraising. "Oh, you know what you want to do." The Joker stops.

Like every other predator, right before he charges he becomes perfectly still and his pupils dilate until his eyes are black, and Bruce catches this moment with complete clarity. The next instance, he hears the Joker growl, that ferocious sound so unlike his whiny, nasal voice, and he feels as if all of his prayers were answered at once when a series of blows lands on his jaw and torso. His reason evaporates. He sways before he braces up and plunges with a counterattack. The Joker is laughing and wheezing; it's hard to predict his next move, but Bruce stops to care right at the beginning. All he sees is pulsating red, all he feels is something ripping him open from the inside.

This isn't fighting. The Joker jerks Bruce towards him and throws a knee to his stomach, and as the man doubles over choking on blood, he pushes him against the wall. All breath is forced out of Bruce’s lungs as he hits the hard surface, and the Joker is against him in a second, punching once, twice, grinding his body against him and biting his neck with an eerie, growling chuckle. Bruce can’t help but submit for the few moments it takes him to regain composure. He punches the Joker in the stomach, and the madman takes a few steps back, hunched over and laughing. Bruce grabs a fistful of the Joker's hair and slams him against the wall just to be tackled a moment later, receiving the following rain of frantic punches with sick exhilaration. The Joker pulls up his head and smashes it against the floor, pounding at his jaw with his fists while his knee wedges between Bruce’s splayed thighs. He hits him, and kneads him, and grinds against him until he lets his guard down and allows himself to be flipped over and pinned to the ground. Within a few seconds, Bruce has lost count of his blows. His thighs unwittingly squeeze the body underneath him, his fists connect with flesh and bone with a crackling sound, his muscles burn and he feels _so fucking good_. He doesn't even know he's growling and snarling like a crazed animal, all he cares about is getting as much of that greasepaint and blood on his knuckles as possible.

The Joker is still laughing as he hits him, but it's not infuriating like the first time. It's _soothing_. Bruce wavers for a split second when something tender in the Joker's eyes stops him in his tracks, and this is all the Joker needs to turn the tables. Bruce is sent to the floor flat on his back with one blow, powerful enough to stun him, but not enough to knock him out. The Joker straddles him, his hands on either side of Bruce's head, and he keeps on laughing, droplets of warm blood dripping from his mouth onto Bruce's bruised face. He moves his hips coyly. Bruce is too slow to hold back a gasp. He can’t believe it. He’s fucking _hard_ , and so is the Joker.

"Ohh, _darling_ ," the Joker slurs, his voice raspy and sultry as he lowers his head to Bruce. His lips are wet with blood. Bruce's cock twitches when they brush against his neck, and he's about to twist away, but the Joker pulls his hair to keep his head in place as he tastes the sweat on his skin. He lets out a pleased hum and grazes his teeth along Bruce's jaw line, his fingers tightening in the man's hair as he rolls his hips once more. Bruce is still intoxicated with the brawl, and the here and now starts to pretty quickly turn into something overwhelming. With the last resort of his self-control he stops his hips from bucking up and grinding with the Joker's, but he can't stop his heavy breathing and his gasps with every scalding kiss the Joker plants on his neck. Finally, the realization reaches him--he's not tied down, he can't be taking it like this, lying flat on his back. It's _not_ what he came here for. He needs to figure it all out, _not_ to let this bastard rape him again.

Bruce attempts to push the Joker away, but a glint of a knife cools down his efforts. It caresses his cheek. His eyes follow the movement of the slim wrist and greasepaint-stained fingers wrapped firmly around the handle. The Joker's other hand is petting his hair.

"You can put that away, I know you wouldn’t kill me," Bruce hisses, but finds no courage in his own words.

" _No_ , no. Of course not." The Joker sighs and rolls his eyes. The blade slides in between Bruce's flushed lips. " _But_ ," he raises his eyebrows and leans in to underscore his words. “My hand can slip, so watch out for that,” he finishes in a conspiring whisper

Bruce shivers and pushes the hand away from his mouth, and in the same instance the Joker's fingers tighten in his hair and tug his head back sharply. He bites Bruce's lower lip with a growl, grinding their hips together until the man lets out a humiliated moan. Their heartbeats are equally frantic, Bruce can tell even with the layers of clothing separating their bodies. It wasn't supposed to be like this, yet he can't think straight lying on the floor, with the Joker's hot mouth on his, with the knife pressed to his neck, with the Joker's cock rubbing against his own and with his flesh still tingling with adrenaline. He's scared his body might give in and respond, and he fucking _wishes_ he were tied up. Then, the Joker sits upright and pulls him up by the hair. Bruce screams with the sudden pain, and for a second all he sees are numbing white spots. He feels the clown's warm breath next to his ear.

"Shh, it's alright. We'll have it your way if you want," the Joker mutters in a parental manner. He stands up and urges for Bruce to follow his example before he pushes him onto the creaking bed. The fidgety, nervous hands strip Bruce of his leather jacket and t-shirt before he has a chance to oppose, and the next second an angered blow to his jaw knocks him out for a flash. He is forced onto his stomach, his arms pulled behind his back and handcuffed. There is a moment stretching for God knows how long when the only thing he hears are the sounds of undressing, and then he feels the Joker's hot, naked chest leaning against his body. It's hard to breathe with this kind of weight on top of him, and his cock is aching, pressed against the hard mattress. The clown's face is now right next to Bruce's. His moist hands brush away strands of hair from his forehead.

"Whaddya say we talk like _grown-ups_ , hm?" he hisses into Bruce's ear. "Are you going to be a sport and settle for the handcuffs, or do we have to truss you up all over again?" No answer, just seething anger and poorly concealed lust lancing at him out of the greenish eyes. The Joker smiles. It's just too good to be true. He climbs off Bruce, harshly pulls his head up and forces it into a nod. "Yes, mister Joker, oh I'll be _good_ , I promise," he rasps in a mockery of Batman's guttural voice and dissolves into cackling laughter.

"You- y'know, I _could_ humor you with all those ropes and everything, but, uh..." His voice trails off when he forces Bruce's hips up and starts to pick at his waistband, sending one of his hands between his thighs to rub his erection. “There’s only so much we can take, hm?” He squeezes, watching Bruce's flushed face press against the mattress, and he licks his lips. Finally, he unzips Bruce's pants and pulls them down along with the underwear, gradually revealing his signature. He leans in to lick and suck at the healing flesh. As soon as Bruce is completely naked and his clothes lie in a pool next to the bed, the Joker grazes his nails up and down the insides of the man's thighs and gently bites the yet unmarred asscheek.

Bruce clenches his teeth when the bites and the sucking grow more and more ravenous. The nails are now digging into his sides, leaving stinging trails in their wake, and he can't help his body tensing up and jerking with disgusting pleasure. He won't even try to make a fool of himself and recall the _real_ him, the one who would set things straight right at the beginning; he's too weak, he's too sick, and acknowledging that he likes it is the most severe punishment he can think of at the moment. There's no going back, anyway. He can tell the Joker's breath quickens by the gusts of hot air against his skin, and he tries to be quiet when the clown lunges onward, his arms wrapping around Bruce's torso, his hard cock pressing against his ass and his sharp, yellow teeth closing over his earlobe. It's a real feat for Bruce to remain mute when the hot, pulsating cock eases in between his asscheeks, rubbing against his balls and perineum while the Joker's hands are all over his chest, his fingers brushing over his erect nipples repetitively.

When the Joker wraps his hand around Bruce's cock, Bruce knows he's done for. The feel of the clown’s naked thighs pressed flush with his own, the friction of their bodies, the hot tongue circling around his jugular vein, and the smell of fucking _greasepaint_ successfully replace every trace of will and reason in his body with liquid fire. He has bitten through his lip. Every grind of the Joker's hips and every teasing squeeze of the Joker's hand steal whimpers, then groans, and Bruce wishes the thumping in his head would drown out the sounds coming out of his throat before it's too late. And then, the Joker simply stops. He takes a deep breath, the exhaled air tickling the back of Bruce's neck, and he leans in to kiss his cheek tenderly.

"Sh, sh, sh," he whispers and pats Bruce's shoulder. A quiet rustle of fabric can be heard before a piece of cloth is roughly forced into Bruce's mouth and tied at the back of his head. "I’ll level with you, I completely forgot about, uh, _this_. Sorry," the Joker mutters as he fastens another knot. "Just so you don't go home and write down in your diary that the Joker is a horrible, _horrible_ person, he made you _scream his name_. The fiend!" he adds with a high pitched, agitated tone and inordinate gestures. He gives the gag a tentative pull to make sure it's properly tied, and nods approvingly. "There you go," he says and reaches to the flimsy night table for a bottle of lube he prepared earlier.

Bruce doesn't really want to look, and he doesn't want to feel grateful. He just hears the sound of popping and then a warm, slippery hand spreads his asscheeks. It's going to happen all over again, he's going to be fucked _again_ , and he's going to like it _again_ , and he's too tired to hate himself for it. The Joker leans in intimately. "I'm sorry, but it's not going to hurt as much as the last time," he coos as his lube-coated finger lingers at Bruce's entrance, gently rubbing and prodding as if too shy to slide inside. "But a such big boy like you can take it, hm?" Bruce doesn’t say anything. He closes his eyes and ponders what he wants more—to strangle this bastard or to feel his cock move deep inside him until he screams like a whore. He’s already thinking of ways he’s going to punish himself later. Meanwhile, the Joker pushes the coy finger inside to begin his meticulous work, and he doesn’t deny himself the pleasure of watching.

Bruce is quite a sight to be seen, with his flushed skin sleeked with sweat, his hips in the air rocking ever so slightly as if without his knowledge, his cock leaking and twitching when another finger sneaks inside and makes sure to rub all the right places in the right way. His muscles tense up and relax with pangs of pleasure, and it's really sweet to watch how he's trying to hold back his moans, but it's even sweeter to see how he's slowly giving in. The Joker just can't help himself; he brushes his lips against Bruce's ear and licks slowly, enjoying the slight shudder under his tongue. He wonders how the hell has he managed to get by without all of this for so long, and he finds no explanation other than that the act of courting is indeed a sacred thing. He laughs to himself. One more finger, and after a few more minutes of stretching, scissoring and angry whimpering, he can tell his treat is ready to be taken.

He squeezes a dab of lube onto his palm and coats his cock. It strikes him how different it feels to have the other man partially resigned to him and to his own desire, and he admits he kind of likes it better that way. All that the Joker ever wanted is to share something with Bruce, _anything_ , to make him _see_ that there is no escape, and that he shouldn't even wish for a way out because his place is right here. It’s so obvious, why wouldn’t he see it? He puts his hands on the other man's hips, squeezing the firm flesh and smoothing over his signature as the head of his cock slowly pushes inside. His arms wrap around the heaving torso when he buries himself completely. He’s considerate, he’ll remain still for a while. He rests his cheek against Bruce’s back and enjoys the little shivers he feels through his skin.

He starts touching Bruce's cock teasingly with one hand, his other hand massaging his balls while his mouth sucks on the trembling flesh. He moves his hips gently, only to press a little firmer against Bruce's prostate, and his grip over the hard shaft tightens, his thumb massaging the tip. Bruce doesn't even try to hold in his moan and he _pushes back_ , forcing the breath out of the clown's lungs.

This little moment of him moving _willingly_ against his body is enough for the Joker to lose any traces of courtesy. He doesn’t wallow in his initial shock for too long; he thrusts into the welcoming body, his pace quick and rough right from the start, but Bruce can take it. He bites down on his gag, knowing he is just earning himself at least two months worth of guilt-ridden rage fits, but he just can’t give a damn right now. Maybe he wants to feel rotten.

The Joker grabs the ends of his gag as if it were a harness and pulls him up to his chest. Bruce screams at the sudden change of angle. He rests his head in the crook of the Joker’s shoulder while the clown’s hands stroke him faster and faster, the pulsating heat pushing into him deep and hard, forcing increasingly high-pitched moans out of his throat.

It’s so easy once he casts away the memory of his life. He won’t try to drum up some of his favorite demons this time, he won’t think of his parents, he won’t think of Rachel, he won’t feel responsible. He will arch his neck and allow the Joker to bite and suck at his flesh, he will moan all he wants, he will push back and take it, because he’s damned anyway. It’s too late.

The Joker comes inside of him, and the awareness that it is _him_ who makes him come does something to Bruce. His entire body arches and convulses, prolonging the Joker’s orgasm. He screams when the hand beating him off and the still hard cock thrusting into him bring him over the edge.

Everything seems so soft afterwards. Bruce can’t feel his bruises and sore muscles, all he acknowledges is the warm body behind him, the arms cradling him as he relaxes against the Joker’s chest, breathing heavily. He enjoys the feel of the exhaled air against his skin and the steady heartbeat against his back. He doesn’t protest when the Joker finally pulls out and pushes him away gently after a minute or two, but it does kind of sting. There are sounds of dressing up, and then the Joker sits next to Bruce and removes the gag. He’s smiling, and Bruce’s eyes are completely blank. He pulls a lipstick from his pocket, touches up his deformed mouth and leans in to leave a kiss mark on Bruce’s cheek, right over the painful shades of green and purple. No reaction from his sweetheart, but that’s alright. He throws the key to the handcuffs on the bed for Bruce to grab later and he is gone. The silence begins and bleeds into the following morning. And then another.

It takes Bruce entire two days worth of mindless acting by rote before the lucid understanding of what he’s done catches up with him. It feels like waking up from narcosis. The sewage of the truth slowly flows into his head and leaves him shaking and helpless. He paces around, holding back his tears and counting his steps until he finally sits down in his white and cold haven, surrounded by his toys, and he decides he can’t take it anymore. He needs some time off. He wraps his bruised body in soothing kevlar, purges his mind of everything, and just leaves, because he can’t be reached in the night.

He will save some girl from being raped. He will slap around a few hoodlums. He will jump off rooftops, he will bust some windows, he will pound away at some psycho with a handsaw who has just waylaid his newest victim. No thinking, just the violence to keep his blood cold.

But when the dawn draws in, his blood feels like sun-burnt sand. He doesn’t want to go back to his shelter, scared of the drilling silence that awaits him. He holds back his nausea and just drives his bike into the tendrils of steam creeping out of the manholes. It’s been a while since he has seen the sunlight, and the few humble rays are more than enough. He returns to his hideout, and some sort of scorching paralysis seizes him as soon as he reaches up to his face. There is no fucking way he can remove his cowl now and look at what is underneath. If it isn’t the first symptom of dementia, Bruce doesn’t know what is.

It’s a full-tilt plunge now. He pulls the plug on his sanity and won’t take his armor off for days. He won’t eat, fueled with his own bile. He won’t sleep, scared of the red lips touching him in his dreams. He will prowl at night and keep his mind dulled out during the day. He will wait with his head empty until physical exhaustion claims him. On the fourth day, his vision goes white and he collapses.

When he wakes up, it’s like he is somebody else. He feels suspiciously calm. Some benevolent voice tells him he needs to put an end to this craziness, but he doesn’t know if it means the Joker, or this little foray into hell. Probably it means his entire existence. That _won’t_ happen. Bruce isn’t the kind of man who would go out this way. He sits upright on the cold floor where he lost consciousness many hours ago and removes his cowl. His hair is oily and he needs a shower. It’s a good thing to put on top of his priority list. Then, a solid breakfast.

As he stands in the shower and lets the water wash away some stiffness lingering in his muscles, he thinks of Alfred and wonders how he’s doing. The image of the butler evokes only some sense of familiarity and affection, but no guilt or castigating voices. It’s quite comforting. It feels as if through this rite of deranged self-denying Bruce has come to grips with his deviation, separating it from the rest of his life to analyze it better. If this is how he is going to deal with it, so be it. He needs a little order to stay alive and healthy until he can find a way out of this. He doesn’t want to realize it’s the exact same kind of tripe he was feeding himself before the last time.

Still, his mind has the useful function of adapting to even the most abhorrent conditions. Bruce is a survivor. His entire being is cut just for that—surviving. His nightmares, his wounds, his doubts, everything is salvageable. This is no different, he tells himself while he prepares some breakfast. He knows he’ll feel a lot better once he eats something. He chooses not to watch the news and enjoys his peace and quiet.

But the worst things have a way at jabbing at us when we really need some reprieve. As soon as Bruce is done with eating, his cell phone buzzes and he knows what it means. This phone serves only one purpose. He is momentarily covered in goosebumps, but his arm lurches out to grab it as if without his doing. He won’t admit he has been anticipating this sound. His heart is thumping, and he keeps telling himself that he needs to live through all of this and reemerge stronger, he needs to eradicate this part of him that renders him completely useless when confronted with the Joker. He needs to learn what it is, first. _As good an excuse as any_ , the taunting voice inside his head tells him, but he shrugs it off.

It is actually late afternoon, and Bruce only has about three hours to get ready. He decides to shave, because he doesn’t want the clown to think he’s gotten under his skin, making him forgo his usual routine. Bruce can use every ounce of confidence he can buy. As he puts the razor to his jaw, he tries to think of nothing. He can’t help his giddiness, though. It’s a miracle he doesn’t cut himself. He rinses his face with water, slaps on some aftershave lotion and studies his reflection carefully. He still recognizes it. It’s a good sign.

Then, he _cleans himself_ , as the Joker calls it, and to his surprise it doesn’t leave him feeling humiliated this time. It’s just a part of what needs to be done. Bruce is growing impervious to a lot of things, he can tell. He can’t decide whether it’s a good sign or not, though.

The trip to another comfortably seedy motel goes without a hitch. There is some strength aiding Bruce now, a faint awareness that no matter what goes down next, it’s going to serve a purpose. He frisks his mind for traces of fear as he walks up to the door, and what he finds, he incinerates with this newfound knowledge. He will resurface with better understanding, and there’s no other way.

When he knocks on the door, though, he wishes he were a million miles away. The sneering voice in his head tells him it’s exactly where he’ll be in the next few minutes. He hears the sound of unlocking and grabs the knob with his sweaty hand. Here comes the reaction he couldn’t have anticipated, but it’s alright. All he needs to do is find a hiding place in the back of his mind and observe the proceedings. He steps inside and closes the door behind him, all of his senses zeroing in on the Joker. The clown stands motionless. He’s dressed in his usual manner, complete with a vest, jacket and leather gloves. It could possibly mean he’s going to take his time tonight, and that doesn’t bode well.

Bruce takes a daring step towards the Joker, but that’s all the movement he can muster. He doesn’t want to make any choices now, and it sickens him. All he wants is the Joker to pretend to do the thinking for him. His heart jumps in his chest when the clown inches closer to him. The gloved hands grab the lapels of his jacket, but the gesture is languid and almost respectful. He leads Bruce towards the bed, licking his lips. His eyes are smiling. He makes him sit down, his back to the headboard, and straddles his lap. All this time, Bruce doesn’t make a sound. He’s too consumed with panic.

He would rather receive a little more courtesy, but he feels he’s not going to be humored tonight. No drugs, no restraints, no hitting. He stands alone against what awaits him. The Joker’s hands are planted firmly on his shoulders, and his painted face is only inches away. He tilts his head to the left and to the right, burning Bruce’s silent turmoil into his memory, but the man won’t look at him. So, he leans in closer and digs his fingers into the dark hair, helping himself to the petrified gaze of his darling.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Bruce,” he tells him, his lips barely touching the clean-shaven cheek while one of his hands crawls downwards, sliding in between Bruce’s thighs and squeezing the budding erection. Bruce wants to scream, but instead he just clenches his eyes shut. How _the fuck_ did that happen? When did he become this walking travesty, growing hard just being close to this psychopath? He’s at a loss now; he planned to let this man have his way with him for some ulterior reasons, now he knows it won’t be that easy. He can’t really tune out and separate his incorruptible core from this frenzy. He gasps when the Joker rubs him slowly, his other hand playing with his hair and his lips so fucking close to his own.

“I’d like you to put your arms around me,” the Joker says softly. “You can pretend I’ve put a gun to your head if you like,” he adds and points two fingers to his temple. Bruce remains completely still. The gloved hand is still cupping him, but it doesn’t really move, just presses and squeezes lightly. The Joker won’t budge and he knows it, so he pretends there is a damned gun right next to his head and lifts his arms. His fingers claw at the madman’s jacket tentatively before its owner grabs his wrists and directs them underneath it. His hands are sweaty and trembling when he places them on the smooth fabric at the back of the Joker’s vest. The maniac scoots a little closer and repositions Bruce’s arms with slight annoyance in his demeanor, forcing him into a regular embrace. He wraps his own arms around Bruce’s neck and leans in.

“See? There’s nothing you can’t _accomplish_ , not even holding a ruthless _criminal_ to your chest could defy you.” The Joker allows his lips to brush along Bruce’s jaw line and inhales deeply. “You shaved just for me, didn’t ya?” Bruce tries to turn his head away. He should have learned by now it doesn’t work like this; the Joker coerces him into facing the right direction with a disappointed frown, and Bruce’s fingers tighten over the fabric with something that isn’t really anger, but close.

“I’m telling you, I can’t be mollycoddling you anymore, you’ll grow spoiled rotten.” The Joker’s lips are just millimeters away from his own now. “You need to _give a little_.” Transfixed, Bruce makes an attempt at a reality check. He’s holding the Joker in his arms. His heart rate could probably rival cocaine overdose, and he’s hard. The odds are against him. And then, the Joker twists the knife.

“Kiss me,” he says calmly. His voice is low and quiet, and the command sounds perversely innocent. At this distance, his face seems a little blurry. Bruce looks at the Joker from behind half-closed eyelids, and the elusive remains of his reason melt in the warmth radiating from him. Yet, he’s completely paralyzed. The Joker strokes his hair tenderly until his eyelids feel heavy and whatever was left inside his head evaporates. He closes the minuscule distance between their lips without even realizing it, until heat starts to bloom in the pit of his stomach and he becomes aware of what’s going on. He’s kissing the Joker, all on his own.

It starts out chaste. Just the softness, warmth, gentle sucking. The Joker’s embrace grows tighter, and Bruce lets out a stifled sigh when he feels a tongue sliding across his lips. It makes him tingle all over. He opens his mouth and allows the Joker to get inside. His neck arches back and he takes notice of how _painfully_ hard he’s become when the clown grinds their hips together. His tongue moves at its own behest, snaking around the Joker’s in one moment and submitting in another until he moans quietly. The Joker takes it as his cue and grows a little more aggressive, but he doesn’t bite. He holds him so tightly, their bodies are pressed flush together, and he seems hell-bent on devouring every little whimper that might come out of Bruce’s throat. And Bruce lets him. He starts to fumble around the Joker’s suspender clip, but it happens beside his will or knowledge. And then, the clown starts to pull away, and he sucks on Bruce’s lips long and hard on his way out. He’s smiling. He’s positively fucking _glowing_ underneath his make-up. Bruce suspects he doesn’t look quite different and closes his eyes. He lets go of the clip.

“You want to take off my _clothes_? Is that it?” The Joker chuckles, but his tone isn’t taunting. Sickly elated is more like it. He raises his gloved hand to Bruce’s lips. “Have at it, then. Show some teeth.” Bruce dares to look up. There’s a pang of anger shooting through him and he studies the clown’s face for even the tiniest trace of amusement. He desperately doesn’t want the Joker to be having _fun_ , not when he’s already _given a little_. He stares, but sees no malice. He realizes he probably derides himself much more severely than the Joker ever would. It’s no double dealing on the Joker’s part, asking him to _show some teeth_. If he wants to see Bruce doing it, the only reason is because he likes to watch him. It’s too simple and obvious for Bruce to comprehend, but he bites down on the tip of the Joker’s glove, wrapping his hands around the slim wrist. He begins to tug until it’s off, and then he throws it to the side, all the while observing the other man’s reaction. He can’t understand the reverence in his eyes, and he can’t understand himself either.

The now bare hand strokes his cheek while the still gloved one traces the shape of his lips before two of the leather-wrapped fingers slide inside his mouth. Bruce tries to overcome the urge to suck, bites down on the tips once more and tugs. He discards the second glove. Two warm hands cup his face while he studies the painted one. The inane thought that this man must be ridiculously good looking under his make up stings like hell.

“Go on, help yourself to the rest,” the Joker purrs and leans back, his arms hanging loosely along his sides. The following dead silence seems to be never-ending. Bruce’s mind has most decidedly short-circuited. This sick killer seated in his lap waits calmly for him to undress him, and he knows damn well Bruce wants to do it, and that he _is going to_ do it, even if Bruce doesn’t. This is what’s going on. He’s about to undress the man who _killed Rachel_ button by button, all the while there’s a throbbing erection trapped in his pants. If Bruce thought before that he might locate the part of him that allows such things to happen, he knows now it’s just one fucking farce. There’s no _part_ , it’s just _him_. He begins to understand what he would have to do in order to deal with this. The Joker is quietly smiling at him, and the realization he’s making this monster _happy_ stabs him right in the heart.

He reaches up to the lapels of the Joker’s jacket and eases it off his broad shoulders. The man wiggles a little to help him, and in a second the jacket lands on the floor. With morbid deliberateness Bruce focuses on the vest, one button at a time, and some slippery, sentient force licking away at every cell of his body makes him drag it all out, enjoy it a little. The fabrics of the Joker’s clothes are top quality, they feel good to touch and they’re warmed by the body they conceal. Now, the vest is undone and joins the jacket. Next, the suspenders, and the odd, sinking sensation in his stomach when he starts to tamper with the necktie. The Joker’s gaze feels heavy and scalding on his skin, but he decides to meet it as he works on undoing the knot. He didn’t believe it was possible, but his face flushes even more. It’s hopeless.

The tie joins the growing pile of garments on the floor and now it’s time for the shirt. Bruce notices one of the buttons doesn’t match, and he doesn’t know why it sends a prick of warmth to his chest. He knows he would like to let his hands run down the Joker’s body right now, he would like to let his fingers brush over the bulge between his thighs and see what it does to him, but he doesn’t want this knowledge. He focuses on the buttons, but it’s hard to deal with what the gradual unveiling the Joker’s flesh makes him feel like. With every button down, he grows more impatient, even though he keeps telling himself he shouldn’t touch. He knows damn well he will, though. There’s just one more button left, and then, there’s no other way; he reaches up and slides the shirt off the Joker’s shoulders, once more receiving a little help with the sleeves. For the short moment when his hands are in contact with the warm skin, something close to electricity shoots through his entire body.

He chucks the shirt to the side and stares, silent. He’s never in his life been attracted to men, and the way his cock reacts to the sight boggles him to no end. Then again, it’s not like his mind is exactly in the right place at the moment. Nothing is. He already feels the undertow of flaying guilt in his bloodstream. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying not to cry or not to scream, or maybe not to laugh, he can’t tell anymore. The warmth comes closer, and the next moment it’s his turn to be undressed. The Joker doesn’t put up a whole lot of ceremony, though. Just a few sharp, frantic moves and tugs, and his shirt and jacket join the pile. Bruce’s vision is a little blurry and his eyes are stinging for some reason. The Joker bows his head, his mouth right next to Bruce’s ear.

“Touch me,” he whispers. Then, he lets his tongue flit against his earlobe before he sucks on it gently. It’s enough to make Bruce’s eyes roll back, but he’s still so shy. The Joker frowns a little, forcibly places the hesitant hands on his body and gives Bruce his most corrosive look. He’s going to get what he wants, and he wants Bruce to enjoy himself.

Looking at him, the Joker allows himself to feel a little accomplished. With every passing second he sees a little more of that precious abandon, and finally, Bruce’s hands come to life. Those beautiful hands that would normally prefer to pound away at his painted clown mug are now wandering over his torso, descending down his chest and the muscles of his stomach, ghosting back up along his sides and basically reducing his body into a shivering mess with those few gestures. Bruce’s touch is a little more curious than sensual at the start, but that comes to change quickly enough. The corners of the Joker’s lips curl up, and when soft fingertips brush over his nipples, he smiles and sighs quietly. When the fingernails gently trace his shoulder blades, slide down his spine and graze against the small of his back, he jerks with a sudden jolt of pleasure and his smile grows wider. Bruce seems absolutely spellbound with his reactions. It’s the perfect moment.

He leans onward and pulls his head to his neck. It’s quite self-explanatory, and indeed, Bruce has no trouble to follow. The Joker purrs with the first hint of touch of his lips. He won’t hurry him. He waits patiently until Bruce finally plants a real kiss on the side of his neck. He tilts his head and his whole body arches against him. He wants more, and Bruce obliges, because how could he not. At this point, he can’t stop his mouth from sucking at the warm flesh, so eagerly exposed for him to taste. He can’t stop his tongue from slithering out and hungrily licking the throbbing veins. His arms tighten around the Joker, and he pulls him closer until there’s some friction between their hips. He’s drowned in his own blood. His senses are replaced with red noise. When he begins to bite down, the loud moan of pure ecstasy and the little tremors taking over the lean body he embraces almost push him over the edge.

But his favorite demons won’t allow it. They laugh and they pull the plug. He stops, breathing heavily, his forehead resting on the Joker’s chest. His vision slowly goes back to normal, but there’s a burning cold shrouding him, and he can’t move. He won’t move. He clutches to the Joker and tries to ward off the pressure increasing in his head. Obviously, it’s pointless. Tears begin to flow down his cheeks, and in all honesty he wishes he was fucking dead.

Being tied down and pretending he’s being raped is one thing. Watching his own hands leave goosebumps on the skin of Rachel’s murderer and almost coming at the sight is another. It’s over for him, it’s over for everything. The Joker isn’t angry, oddly enough, he just keeps holding him as if nothing has happened. Finally, he ruffles his hair and pulls at it gently, forcing Bruce to look at him.

“It’s alright. It’s alright now. You’ve earned it.” A sweet kiss to his forehead is followed with a blow to his jaw. Then another. Bruce falls back against the pillows and the headboard, and the Joker goes after him, biting, scratching, hitting, spoiling him rotten. It’s alright now. He closes his eyes and swims in his endorphins, deaf to his own screams. When he takes his prescribed dose, he feels the Joker lapping up his tears, and he remembers this isn’t really his fault. He peripherally acknowledges soft words whispered into his ear, telling him he didn’t do anything wrong, _it’s the big bad Joker who’s making him do all this, the damn bastard_ , then the spine-tingling kisses descending down his neck, moist lips sucking at his nipple, stiff tip of a tongue circling over it, fingers unzipping his pants, hands tugging them off, the sound of the Joker discarding his own pants.

Bruce opens his eyes, but he’s in a vertigo. Maybe he’s got a concussion, maybe all of it is simply too much. It’s alright. He can still feel the smarting pressure where the Joker’s fists have injected their medicine, and he realizes there’s a faint, intoxicated smile lingering on his lips. The next instance, the scarred, bitter ones seem to try to kiss it away, but it stays. He feels the Joker is smiling too. There’s a second of commotion, and he concludes the clown is reaching to the night table for the lube. It won’t hurt so much this time either. The vertigo subsides, but his veins are still filled with blood-soaked cotton. The Joker is slowly working his way down, licking the muscles of his stomach, sucking on the soft skin of his inner thighs, some stray hairs brushing against his cock lying heavy and swollen on his hip. As soon as some of Bruce’s senses begin to tentatively kick back in, the Joker obliterates their very existence with one stroke of his tongue.

Bruce gasps and shudders, and the clown gives him a little more, and then some. He takes his cock in his hand and lavishes every inch of it with long, burning kisses, snakes his tongue around its base and diligently licks up the underside, closes his hot mouth around the head and sucks, laps up the precome and runs his fingers up and down the pulsating length. His breathy chuckle at Bruce’s screams only makes the man scream louder. With a fluid motion, he slowly slips a lube-coated finger inside. It doesn’t take long for Bruce to relax, with the Joker’s tongue massaging his leaking slit and his hand squeezing the base firmly. Another finger enters him, quickly working up a rhythm that sends a surge of liquid fire through Bruce’s stomach. He’s quivering and sweating all over, suddenly wishing he had something to bite on. His lips are already gnashed. The fingers moving and scissoring inside him curl upwards slightly while the mouth takes in a little more of him, sucking in earnest, and it’s only owing to the Joker’s grip that he doesn’t come right on the spot. He thrashes against the bed, moans and writhes. He’s ready.

The Joker pulls away, rolling his tongue against his palate and sucking on the side of his mouth as if trying to keep the taste alive. He looks at Bruce’s heaving chest and at his flushed face, at his heavy eyelids and tousled hair, and he feels his throat tighten and sting. He spreads the lube over his own cock, hooks his arms under Bruce’s knees and lifts them a little before he settles between the spread thighs and starts to push into the tight warmth.

He’s not very gentle; he can’t afford to be at this point. It’s either this or going insane. He _needs_ Bruce, he needs to saturate every last cell of his body with the way he feels and looks right now, with the way his back arches and his hips buck up to meet his frenzied thrusts. But there’s still this little voice at the back of his head that reminds him what he _really_ wants is to see Bruce _enjoying himself_ , not just lying back and sucking the juices out of him with his disarming submission.

He doesn’t stop fucking him even for a second though, getting lost in the unabashed moans cutting through the heavy air, growing louder with each thrust. But when their eyes meet for a second, he slows down. He can’t look away, and he knows what he wants. It hurts like no tomorrow, but he pulls out and lets go of Bruce’s legs. The man is just looking at him, obviously not very thrilled with the unannounced recess, but the Joker scoots to the side in silence, resting his back against the headboard.

“Come here,” he says, a little breathless. He pats his naked thighs. Bruce lifts himself on his elbows and stares askance, but the only response is that corrosive glare that won’t take no for an answer. So, he rights himself and obediently crawls into the Joker’s lap, their wet cocks touching and causing them both to shudder. “You know what to do.” The Joker is hard to read at this moment, still, Bruce knows all he needs to know. The senses are floating leisurely in his head, but they’re there nonetheless; he’s aware of what he’s doing and as he keeps his eyes fixed on the Joker’s, he realizes this is the beginning of the end anyway.

Bruce lifts his hips and lowers them over the clown’s cock until he’s completely buried inside him. He doesn’t dare to move, though. He waits for the Joker to squeeze his branded ass, pull him gently towards himself and tilt his hips so the hard, hot flesh inside him presses a little firmer against his prostate. He lets out a whimper, but he still won’t move until this psychopath gives him a genuine, bone-melting smile.

He starts to rock his hips, a little unsure at first. Soon enough, he finds the right angle for himself and at this point it would be impossible to stop. He’s panting and covered in sweat, and he wants _more_ with every single thrust. His eyes are trained on the Joker’s. What he sees burns him and sends him to a different place, and for a short moment, through looking at him he finds something pure within himself. Something that he doesn’t feel he’d be ever able to name or grasp.

The Joker can’t keep his hands away from his flesh. The image of Bruce finally _enjoying_ himself, his body arching and bouncing in his lap, taking him all in with every push is etching into his memory, because he knows it might not last. He runs his nails roughly down Bruce’s chest before he strokes his cock, and watches him close his eyes, throw his head back and moan, his upper lip curling in a carnal smile. When Bruce’s gaze comes back to lock with his, it feels like one of their very first encounters; standing on an empty street, waiting for Batman to hit him with his bike. When Bruce grabs a fistful of his greasy hair and grinds their mouth together in a kiss that’s everything but pretty, it’s not much different than what he thinks being actually hit would have felt like. For Bruce, it feels like driving off a cliff full throttle. Everything is black then. Just their bodies slamming against each other, their nails digging into flesh, the thick heat suffocating them as they come.

After that, the world seems too unreal for Bruce to let go of the Joker. His face is burrowed into the clown’s neck and he’s panting. He feels equally frenzied gusts of air against his skin. Their heartbeats appear to run in unison for a few seconds before the realization comes. Bruce doesn’t want the Joker’s arms around him to ever go away. This is why it needs to happen now. He lifts himself until the Joker’s cock slips out of him, and he sits on the bed, making a point not to touch the other man, and most importantly—not to look. Bruce knows it would destroy those sorry remains of his will.

The Joker sits there motionless for a few more seconds, and when he moves, some part of Bruce fears and hopes he will touch him, but he doesn’t. He scrambles off the bed and begins to get dressed, all the while Bruce just kneels on the rumpled sheets, his back turned to him and his head hanged. He stares, and he knows Bruce feels it, and he knows what would make them both feel better, making things worse at the same time. So he won’t say a word, he just pulls on his gloves and struts to the door where he stops for one more moment. Maybe for the first time in his life the Joker would like to know what happens next instead of happily going with the flow.

When the door closes behind him, Bruce watches his scratch marks, the remains of bitter greasepaint on his hands, he feels the semen seeping out of him and he starts to cry. Scream into the pillow and claw at his hair.

Days later, he makes sure all of his affairs are taken care of and every specification as to what is to happen to his company in the event of his death is legible. He does it all with robotic precision. He won’t even look at the comforting black hole that is the Batman’s armor. Then, he finds a little box he brought to his base when he decided to turn it into a home after the whole thing started. He opens the lid. Inside, there are pictures, newspaper clippings, the arrowhead he and Rachel found in his garden. He picks a picture of his parents and stares. Bruce Wayne, the heir to their legacy will have a little accident during his jaunt and he will be remembered as a sweet, stupid man who had a lot and gave a lot. The man who now looks at the picture of the Waynes does not deserve to bear their name.

He leafs through the newspaper clippings, looks at the pictures of Rachel or Harvey while turning the arrowhead in his hand. Then, he looks around the stark, cold hall and considers getting some appropriate explosives to make it seem inconspicuous. Like natural gas eruption, maybe. Batman should go out with a bang, but then again, why bother. Lastly, he checks his travel arrangements for the umpteenth time, and then all that is left to do is to grab a tranquilizer gun and go to the location the Joker texted to him a few hours earlier. Another motel room.

When he’s at the door, he feels withered. He doesn’t sweat, his heart doesn’t race, he doesn’t even want to cry. The promise of how the rest of his life is about to look has already fettered him, and now he’s as good as dead. He knocks, the door unlocks, he enters. He hopes it will be easy, but when he looks at the Joker, it just fucking _hurts_. It hurts so much to take this one little step, it hurts to watch him just stand there, waiting and smirking like he knows what’s coming. When Bruce is just inches away, he still doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch when there’s a sudden prick on his arm.

“It’s over, Joker,” Bruce whispers, and the Joker chuckles, slumping and clinging to him as his legs grow weak.

“Yeah, I missed you too,” he mutters before he loses consciousness. Bruce puts his arms around him, holding him up, and stays like this for a moment. He knows what needs to be done. He lifts him off the ground, places him on the bed and cuffs his wrists and ankles. Then, he reaches for his phone. He’s going to call Gordon and tell him where he can find the Joker, and then he’ll go live the rest of his life somewhere else, enjoying his demons’ laughter forever and ever, and ever.

Except, it doesn’t quite work that way. It’s been thirty minutes and he’s still kneeling beside the bed, staring, the phone all slippery in his sweating hand. The Joker is lying on his side, breathing steadily, his face relaxed. And Bruce just can’t stop looking. Finally, he presses his palms to his forehead and takes a deep breath. The Joker should be out for the next two hours, give or take. If Bruce is about to send his entire life to the sewer, he might as well humor himself on his way out. He goes to the bathroom and comes back with a wet washcloth. He puts it to the Joker’s face. He needs to make a few rounds, rinsing the thick make-up off the fabric a few times before he can finally see what has been underneath the whole time.

The longer he looks, the less withered he feels and it worries him. The Joker’s skin is anything but inviting—dry and sallow. There’s a little hint of stubble on his jaw and there are deep, dark circles around his closed eyes. There are some freckles on his rounded nose and cheekbones. He doesn’t look very healthy. Still, there’s this little thought that bumps against the border between what Bruce allows himself to think and what he pushes down into the domain of demons. The Joker is fucking _beautiful_. Bruce will never, ever let himself acknowledge that. Or will he.

He sits there for a good fifteen minutes, still staring, with the stained washcloth in his hand. What does it matter that this mad dog killer happens to look that way? He belongs in a padded cell. He should be wearing a straitjacket, not these quirky clothes that suit him so well. He should be on medication every single day, so no one will ever hear him laugh again, so no one will ever see this glint in his eyes. He should be hose washed, electroshocked and abused by the medical personnel. Bruce knows what goes down at Arkham.

He feels so lightheaded when he rises to his feet. He looks once more at the colorful puddle that is the Joker, and uncuffs him. Then, he leaves the room. He gets in his car and sits there. He knows he’s in no condition to drive; his vision is blurry, his heart rate is crazy, and he just can’t fucking think. His mind just spins into a stupor.

An hour and half passes and Bruce does not even notice. The vibrating in his pocket sends a little ray of awareness through his head, and he reaches for its source. It’s the one-purpose-serving phone. The Joker is calling him.

He leaves the car and can’t determine what he feels, but given the fact that he’s at the door in less than a split second, he must be feeling quite anxious. Anxious to get in, to look at him, to see what he does, to hear what he says. The Joker will probably find the whole thing fucking adorable; here’s Bruce, too shy to ask him to remove his makeup so he sedates him and does it himself. Then, he waits all nervous in his car until the Joker wakes up, the big silly. Bruce almost smiles to himself at the thought. He enters the room and the buzzing in his pocket stops.

The Joker sits on the bed with a phone in his hand, grinning, his shoulders shaking slightly with quiet laughter. His eyes look a little drowsy. Bruce locks the door behind himself. If he is going to spend the rest of his life listening to his demons laughing, he might just as well do it right here.


End file.
